Sleeves Stained Red
by CharmingNotDarling
Summary: It seems the calm that so often comes before the storm has instead followed in the wake of its recession. Post Red John.
1. Chapter 1

Sleeves Stained Red

1

Summary: It seems the calm that so often comes before the storm has instead followed in the wake of its recession.

In a single smooth and seamless gesture the day is laid to rest as evening invokes the sky. The golden glow of the autumn sun takes its final bow and the horizon is set aflame with violet clouds and a crimson haze. Its beauty is enough to coax adoration from even the most cynical of men.

And yet, by you, the entire scene goes unnoted.

Your team is slowly working their way toward you. Personal belongings and unfinished paper work load them down as they scan the room for items whose absence would make the weekend impossible. Your movements catch their eye and it pulls a bit at your heart to see the slightest signs of worry cross their faces. The closing of your latest case has draped a heavy cloak of caution along the shoulders of every member of your team. Death is permanent, always, and yet with the dawning of Red John free days you all still feel the need to fear.

"Everything ok, Boss?" It's Cho who works up the nerve to speak as you all come to a stop along the inner corridor.

There's a need to comfort in you, it's strong and demanding and you know reassurance is what they're truly after. To hell with the truth, white lies were created to enforce the greater good.

"Everything's fine. Go home, get some sleep, enjoy the weekend." There's disbelief in the set of their eyes but respect holds a higher accord and they take your assurance and continue toward a hopefully eventless forty-eight hours.

You watch as they enter the elevator and catch the end of a conversation that was most likely started before you arrived. They'll spend a few hours together. Perhaps share a few slices of pizza followed by a few more glasses of their brand of liquid comfort.

You can't blame them or their need for comfort.

Haven't you come back here in search of your own?

You enter the bullpen and the floor is indeed deserted. There's a stillness here and yet it brings no relief. It fills every pour, every fiber, every breath to the point of suffocation. There's nothing affirming or forgiving in its presents. Instead it cloaks everything with a shadow of caution. Like a breath held in anticipation. It's heavy weight a reminder of the voids you've left unfulfilled. Of the lives lost and those which will never be the same again.

It's as if, even from the grave, control has not yet been released from the malicious hands of a man whose name leaves you with a longing to never mention again. There's an inkling of humor in that realization. How even in death, in pure justice, you're all still searching for something. Something you yourself understand will never come.

As you feared the couch is empty. As soon as death was declared, he was gone, mentally first and physically not long after, his need for solitude evident in every step he took.

That was three days ago.

Your breathing falters as you remember the darkness in his eyes the last time they met yours. Your need to sooth painted across every one of your features and his lack of acceptance equally so.

You walk toward the couch and wonder, as your heart pounds in your ears, if his form will every grace its length again.

As you finally turn to leave, there's a motion that catches your eye. There in the break room, its presents enhanced by the glow of the setting sun, the faintest curl of steam rising from the kettle.

He's here. He hasn't left you.

The knowledge lifts your spirits and the corners of your mouth. A reaction you'd refuse to allow to surface had the floor not been deserted. You force yourself to keep a slow and steady pace as you count your breaths and time your gate.

The blinds in your office have been drawn, an action you've had no time to execute yourself today. So you know he's here, and you know he can hear you coming. It hurts a little to know he'll take those few precious seconds to mask his feelings, install his wall of humor and deflections.

As you approach the door you wonder if you have the strength for his aversions and deception tonight. You're weary to the bone and your heart has been tugged so many times in his direction you can't help but pray the thinning seams that hold it all together can make it through whatever it is that's waiting for you both.

You pause a moment, your hand curling around the smooth surface of the handle and you rest your pulsing brow to the cold clear glass.

You've never been here before.

Red John has been the purpose of your years together. The driving force that brought him into your life is gone.

And you're absolutely terrified it means he's going too.

If he were anyone else you'd never question your worth. But Jane is a different story, so little of what's above the surface derives directly from what's beneath. You're important to him, you're important to each other. But for all you know your emotional attachment is something he's no longer capable of.

So with your heart in your throat you drum up the energy to push aside the last barrier between you.

He's seated not in his usual corner of the couch but perched, ankles crossed, on the edge of your desk. When your eyes meet, he's already rising and the robin's egg blue cup and saucer meet in a symphony of clatter that's so un-Jane-like it startles you both. He composes himself quickly, a half second at most, and sets the ceramic duo down on your desk and takes a cautious step forward.

You've barley entered your own office, only far enough for the door to swing closed with a gentle swoosh behind you. He leaves a span between you only large enough to keep your body heat from mingling. His hands go to his pockets and you cross yours eventually grabbing a hold of your elbows.

You're both faced with the inability to look each other in the eye. His stance is filled with awkward movements and nervous energy. Yours with your usual uncertainty, but thankfully over the years you've managed to master it gracefully.

"I'm sorry I left the way I did." He shuffles his feet as you realize how out of character a true and meaningful apology from this man is. Even with force or guilt it's practically unheard of. You feel your face grow warm and your eyes fill. "I would hope you understand that I had somewhere I needed to be."

"Malibu." You say it before you think it. You can smell the salt clinging to the air you share and his hair has more of a wind tossed look then a hand tossed one. And of course you know him well enough to know he would need to be close to them.

Your voice is watery, filled with an emotion you yourself could not explain. You mentally walk yourself though your calming method and drag your lower lip in and bite down hard. The taste of blood helps remind you that you have no business bringing your emotions here and you're ashamed you actually have.

He shocks you both a little when he closes the distance between you and his hands find purchase along your upper arms. The scent of salt is laced with the scent that can only be Jane and it invades what's left of the little sense you were clinging to.

Your together always, the job demands it, but never like this.

"Hey," He leans in, forehead bumping yours gently as his grip on you tightens. "Lisbon,"

"I'm sorry." You're embarrassed now and overwhelmed by his nearness, so you take two steps back and end up flush with the door, the wooden slats of the blinds pulling at your ponytail and the handle jabs your waist.

Your retreat in turn causes his advance. His eyes meet yours for the first time and you find them filled with something you've never seen and don't care to learn. He's upset, angry even and you have no idea why. His grip on you is gentle regardless of what's evident on his face, his hands returning to their previous hold and pull you forward.

He leads you to the couch and you sit, perched on the edge, elbows to knees, face in your hands. Your voice comes out so soft it's practically a whisper, and you're pretty sure it's laced in a mockingly humorous tone.

"I was afraid I'd come back and-"

"-and I wouldn't be here." He lets out a deep sigh and his breath slides along your face like a whisper, a few errand strands of your hair caress your cheek. You realize then he's crouched before you and when you finally open your eyes his face fills your view. He's no longer angry, more hurt than upset.

"I know I've hurt you." Of course he does, what doesn't he know.

You begin to deflect, your embarrassment once again taking hold of your pride and dragging it to the surface of your emotions.

But he silences you with the touch of his left hand to your cheek, his thumb grazing your lips. The contact is so new its warmth lulls you into silence.

"I know I've left more bridges burned in my wake than I've mended fences, and almost always you've received the short end of that stick. But you're the reason I was able to take that ride and finally lay the most consuming chapter of my life to rest. How could I not come back?"

His hands frame your face as the tips of his fingers gently graze your hairline.

"Where else would you have me going Lisbon?"

You're afraid to speak, don't know if you can. You're pretty sure he isn't leaving but your tender heart can't be sure.

"We've never been here before." The tears you've managed the push passed are threatening again. "This case has consumed you for so long. It's the only reason I even know who you are. I've just been so unsure of what would come next. What you would do, where you would go. I've never really stopped to think of what would happen after."

_And what it would mean to me if you left._

He practically reads your mind, and you find for the first time you're thrilled to exhaustion to not have to spell it out.

"And you're wondering where that leaves you. Wondering if now that my mission is complete I'll go back to where I came from, or worse, go off and start over, start something new. Without you, without any of you."

He makes it sound softer than he should. Because no matter how gently he's made the statement there's still an underlying selfishness to it.

"I made a promise to myself that should the day come that I could honestly and truly breathe a Red John free life I would close that door and never open it again."

He pulls his hands from your face then and holds them between you, his eyes visible over the tips of his fingers. It's then that you realize his ring is gone. Not just switched to his right hand, or hidden in a pocket or dangling from a chain around his neck. You know in that moment it's gone.

"Where else would you have me go, Lisbon?" He asks again, a small smile on his face.

It's than you finally smile, through a veil of endless, silent tears. He does his best to seize them but there's nothing to be done to damn them. You pull him close than, arms wrapped around his neck and press your face into the crook of his shoulder. You give a watery laugh in your delight in this new found nearness and tighten your grip.

He stands than, taking you with him. Your face pressed into his shirt front his vest scratching your cheek. His face is buried in your hair and you can hear him inhale deeply. His arms snake your waist beneath your blazer and his grip is tight enough to bruise your ribs.

You couldn't care less. He isn't leaving, he's staying.

Some moments later his hold relaxes a notch or two and brushes the hair from your tear stained face.

"Why don't I drive you home."

And you find yourself once again speaking before you think,

"And you'll stay?" He grins as you blush a deep and rather unflattering shade of crimson

"I don't mean it like that, I just- I don't-"

"Don't worry, I'll stay. I don't either."

A/N: Please forgive me, it's been awhile since I've posted and above all this is my first Mentalist attempt so tread gently with comments of inconsistencies. Thank You!


	2. Chapter 2

Sleeves Stained Red

2

**A/N: I'm not hugely satisfied with this chapter. Jane is definitely not my cup of tea to write (ha ha:). He's someone I'm never exactly sure how to even attempt to master. But while waiting for Sandy to make land fall I needed a challenge of sorts to pass the time during mandatory curfew. Between Irene and Sandy I'm questioning my judgment in moving to New Jersey. **

The sun has long since set, the sky stripped of all color. All that's left is a soft silvery glow that deepens the shadows and defines what should be bright. It leaves the room coated in a leaden haze that emphasizes and softens every edge and angle.

It's not until you feel her blush rather than see it that you realize you've nearly lost the light. To your delight her embarrassment has her leaning further into you in search of a way to protect her nervously flushed profile from your overly observant gaze.

And you're sure she's hoping you've missed the fact that her eyes are indeed still full.

You want to tell her there's no need to hide. But you're not sure you can manage to work the words past the emotion in your throat. So you stand as you stood before, tucked within each other. There's no question she feels your erratic heartbeat, its literally pounding in her ear. She takes it as a sign of equality and you feel her relax. And within your next few breaths she releases you and steps back.

You watch her swipe away a few wayward tears with more force than necessary. You know she hates a public display of emotion. You can understand her need for a strongly enforced façade when she's working and for the longest time that's where the road ended for you.

She needs to know that things have changed, that the only similarity between the man you were and the one you're going to be is that you both need her. You respect who she is without boundaries just as she knows who you are without judgment.

You've spent a small portion of the last three days laying to rest every part of your life Red John has touched, and the majority of it figuring out if who you really are is someone good enough for the woman standing before you.

You've shared more downs than ups these last few months, and it shakes you how devoted she's remained. She's loyal without fault and you wish there could be a time and place to go back to and do so much differently.

There's not a single memory you posses of another person offering so much devotion.

You're engulfed in a need to banish her tears so you finish drying her cheeks and find you can't seem to stop your hands from touching so you smooth her bangs back with a much gentler hand than hers. You give in to the need to simply feel and run the backs of your fingers along the now fading flush, you continue down her throat, and then back to cradle her head in your hand. Her eyes close in a reflex laced in trust and a little bit of something else. They open wide again as you lift one hand only long enough to remove the band from her hair. It flows like water over her slender shoulders and over your hands as well. The cinnamony scent of it invades your senses and spreads like fire through your veins.

She watches you with a hawkish gaze, her eyes piercing and unsure. Yet you're nearly positive they're filling with something more like need. You feel her shift ever so slightly, and you force yourself to take a step back. It's been longer than you can remember since you've had to enforce control of this caliber.

This isn't the place for a first of such magnitude.

You take her face in your hands again and pull her closer, hoping to convey your opinion without words. You let your lips rest along her hair line a few seconds longer then you should, and then you linger a little longer still.

There's something comforting and undeniably familiar in your shared embrace and it's coupled with the slightest hint of an emotion you were positive you left for dead over a decade ago.

"Home." You breathe the single word into her hair line, your lips graze her skin and you're given your first taste of what is most undeniably Lisbon. She nods and you can feel her smile along the palm of your hand before she untangles herself from you. The shadows are heavy now but you're sure she's still smiling as she attempts to the tame mahogany strands you've just released from their confinement.

She loves you. You're almost sure she always has and you're pretty sure you've always known.

But what you're most afraid of is whether or not who you really are, will ever be good enough for who she is.

You can't remember a time when there wasn't a greater force demanding your attention. And you know you've always been the greater force demanding hers. Your mind had been so consumed with revenge that when it was finally validated all the emotion your heart stored up came crashing down scrambling your senses. Sure over the years you've felt a gentle stirring in your chest that could only be known as affection but never would you even think that one day you'd be capable of ever feeling this way again.

From the very beginning she was nothing but a tool, a light to guide your way, a soft hearted soul who would part oceans for you. She rarely demanded and always offered. Offered any and everything she could to help broaden the horizon between your pain and acceptance.

She would never stoop so low as to pick up the scattered pieces of you, but she would gently push and shove them close enough together to help you find your own way to mend.

She straightens her hair, her blazer and desk. You watch the woman you've finally found slide seamlessly back behind the badge.

"I'll meet you at the elevator." You tell her as you collect your cup and saucer. She nods and smiles as she retrieves her gun and shield from the side drawer. She smiles and it's full and fierce and it's the first time in a while it's been real enough to reach her eyes.

The sight of her joy helps to further loosen the first that's been clenching your heart.

You leave the blue duo in the sink, something you've never made a habit of and fear will be scrutinized come Monday morning. You'll worry about it then. You refuse to keep her waiting.

You make a quick stop for your go bag. You hope she doesn't consider it to presumptuous. She did after all ask you to stay.

She's patiently waiting, briefcase in hand, the call button glowing subtly beside her. The elevator arrives, the doors slide open as you reach her side. She smiles at you, and when she sees the bag the smile receives a notch of shyness. It dawns on you then, you've made no promises and declared nothing, and as always she's asking nothing of you.

There's a need in you for vindication, not your own of course but hers. For once words escape you, and you suddenly find the passion inside you taking over.

The doors slide shut and you turn to her. She mirrors your actions, but you don't give her a chance to react. Your bag hits the floor, your hands take hold of her hips and lift her clear off the floor. She's slender as a willow and weights next to nothing. Her bag slides soundlessly out of her grasp and her slender limbs wrap around you, ankles and wrists crossed where you can't see. Her breathing shallows as her heart hitches and you once again release her hair from its hold, pressing her back flush to the wall. Her hands are tangled in your hair and her eyes meet yours briefly before she closes the last few inches between you.

Her lips brush your cheek before her teeth gently graze your earlobe. Your hips react without a thought and you release a moan that's been hovering at the apex of your throat all night.

"Lisbon." Her name comes out through your teeth as you clench your jaw in defense and tangle your hands in her hair. You take hold of it gently and pull her face back into view.

"Lisbon," Your voice is gentler this time, not without effort, she has to know how badly you're trying.

She mirrors your movements and takes your face in her hands. Her fingertips brush your cheek bones and her thumbs graze your lips.

"Jane, please," Her stare becomes most thorough. "kiss me."

**A/N: I want to admit, the elevator idea was not my own. It was hinted at in a story that's a favorite of mine. So I thank Starry19 for its implications at the end of "Of Anger and Forgiveness" and for writing so beautifully that it hinders my ability to do much more than read and reread. I greatly hope you don't mind. **


	3. Chapter 3

Sleeves Stained Red

3

**A/N: I'd like to take the chance to thank everyone for taking the time to review this story so far. There's nothing to fuel a muses fire like a few kind words. I actually wrote this chapter by hand, something I haven't done in a very long time, thanks to Sandy and our lack of power for the better part of the week. But you won't hear me complain, we were lucky to come out slightly damp but otherwise unscathed.**

There's absolutely no where else you'd rather be then right here in this instant.

The wall is cold along your shoulders and small of your back where his hands have freed your tank and lifted your blazer. His hands tug and pull bringing you as close together as clothing will allow. His strong and dedicated fingers find purchase along the curve behind your knee. They squeeze, lifting slightly and you feverishly wish the car would refuse moving for, oh about a day and a half.

The over head lighting is more green than gold and you find it does amazing things to his complexion and the now blue-green depths of his eyes.

You're almost positive he's attempting to commit your request and the actions that follow to memory. His eyes take a slow and steady inventory of your face as he heeds your direction and brings you even closer together. You feel your lids slowly start to close as his nose gently meets yours and you feel his warm breath in shallow bursts along your slightly parted lips. His hold tightens on your hair and his eyes convey his need to see yours.

He's done as you've asked, finally, and you're much more than grateful it's this specific request he's indeed agreed to oblige you with.

You're very nearly positive the earth shifted slightly when his lips finally met yours. You'll remember this moment much later on and realize it was just the elevator starting its decent. But the sensation adds just a hint of fairytale to the situation and your mind has long since left to wander possibilities of a more romantic nature.

You're stunned to find his lips are gently, apologetic even. There's no regret here, of this you're sure, but he's holding something back. There was a need in him, a passion, and up until this moment it mirrored the one you now find yourself reining in on an uncomfortably short leash.

How else would you have ended up wrapped around him, your bottom pressed along the handrail, his hands feasting on your hair?

He may be gentle but it wouldn't be the choice phrase you'd use to describe your first kiss from Patrick Jane.

His lips take over and every move they make your body longs to mirror. You open up for him, his mouth demands it. So softly, so whisper light you can do nothing but purr in response. His hands are everywhere and yet they always seem to return like gossamer wings to the curve of your face.

They're the hands of a man who knows the depths of the treasure he holds. No one has ever made you feel so valuable before.

The gentle bell calls you both regrettably back. The doors slide apart and so do the eyes you could have sworn you left open. It's then you find the heat you knew was missing from his kiss, it's lodged within the stubborn set of his jaw.

"You're worth more than this." His words are drenched in passion, his voice throaty and horse. He has yet to open his eyes or loosen his grip, his lips are still pressed subtly to your own and as he speaks they drift southward, along the curve of your cheek, down your throat.

You're caught between the reality of the moment and fantasy you sometimes slip within. If he only knew where your mind has been let to wonder. The things, the places, the ways you've seen this very moment over and over inside of your mind. Never here; never at work, never within these too familiar walls that have become a favorite haunting ground of his. When you think of him you're alone, always, which is whenever you're not with him.

You smile and rest your brow to his. It would be now this man would find a need to validate your honor.

You wait for him to compose himself and look you in the eye again. You can only hope you're as easy to read in this moment as you always seem to be to him. He needs to know, through any means necessary how much that single statement has touched you.

"I would assume you're expectations exceeded groping in a public elevator the first time we actually got around to doing this." A small half smile works its way along his face. He's trying to be too many things at once. Any other woman would be impatient, of this you're sure, you just know him well enough to understand it's been way too long since he's had to put his feeling to voice.

And lets face it, you've set aside the better part of the best days of your life waiting for him.

"My expectations, up until only just an hour ago, were never brave enough to even venture down this path. I'll be eternally grateful there's been a first at all "

There's no need to let him know your expectations and your imagination have never before today met.

He chuckles and you're glad for once he's easily lead. He untangles you both from each other; his eyes hold your own even as he reaches for the now closing door. You give him a gentle shove, letting your hands take the trial of your recession at a much more thorough pace then needed. You hear his breath catch and feel his heart beat a little too fast as your palms slowly slide the length of his shirt front.

And it thrills you to know the gesture is not lost on him. It's not lost on either of you because you're so dangerously close to letting the doors slide close once more and throwing the emergency hold button into effect.

You hurry past and around him instead, cursing yourself for lacking the skill to play this all casually.

Because in truth there's nothing casual in the way you feel and regardless of the fact that he most definitely knows, you wish you could master his ability to be so aloof with even half as much grace as he does. He shouldn't be able to read your every emotion and move. You're a woman and deserve the right to some level of allure.

Although tonight he's fallen victim to a cliché you've never seen him bow down to before. Patrick Jane without words is like a breath without air.

That thought leaves you with a smirk, after all this time there's not much room left for a level of anything. You doubt there's much you could tell him that he wouldn't claim to have seen coming or stand to already know.

And as you reach the car, keys posed in hand your eyes meet over the hood of your standard mode of transportation. His posture once again takes on a nervous edge, so uncharacteristically him, his smile goes slightly bashful and it reminds you again how new this whole situation is for both of you.

You've never been here before.

Every move you both make is a small gesture of creation, it's an emotional stepping stone to hopefully take you somewhere you both long to be. There's no map to guide your way, and for once his ability to create and pave the proverbial path calms your bruised and battered nerves into submission. It'll be another first for you both, your willingness to grant him leadership down this unknown road.

You trust him and he came back to you. How much more could either of you ask for at this point in time?

You smile, releasing the locks as you cock your head in a welcoming gesture. The wind chooses this moment to pick up and throw a few lonesome leaves around the nearly vacant parking lot. You deposit your belongings in the back seat and take a moment to once again tam your wayward locks.

"Don't," He says it with a sheepish grin and he raises a hand to halt your movements. You release your hold and let masses once again flow around you. His fingers brush a few defiant strands from your eyes and then tugs gently before releasing his hold.

"I like it wild. It's different, like it's the real you, whoever you are when you aren't here."

It's funny how such a silly, simple statement can do amazing things to your insides.

You're both silent for a few moments, you share a smile and an understanding that everything has changed, there's nowhere to go but forward and it's about damn time you've both been able to finally match your pace and take the next steps together.

You throw the truck in drive and before you release the brake he takes your hand in his. You look down as he threads your fingers together, and brings the tips to his mouth. His breath is warm, his eyes are bright in the silvery glow of industrial lamps. He brings his lips to the back of your hand; you can feel his smile and find yourself fighting back tears.

"Home." It's barely above a whisper but he hears you and nods and his smile kicks up a notch.

His grip on your hand doesn't waver the whole way there.

**A/N: One more to go…. And there will be a rating change…. Just so we're all aware. **


	4. Chapter 4

Sleeves Stained Red

4

**A/N: Ok so I know I said this would be the last but it has become apparent there's too much to touch on and if I ran with it now the chapter would never end…. Note the rating change, I'm probably overreacting but one can never be too sure. **

**We've taken a seriously emotional turn in this chapter… I hereby consider you all warned…**

The implications behind her invitation and your acceptance have most definitely changed. You've both gone from a need for company, a need to no longer be alone, to a desire to put actions behind emotions you simply cannot put to words.

They are words she deserves, among so many other things. Promises, of devotion and acceptance and a fulfillment of the deep dark void inside you both, as you approach her door you wonder if there are enough moments in this coming night to resurrect them all.

The key in the lock sounds uncharacteristically loud, you watch her break the final barrier that will allow you an uninterrupted string of hours, hours you will hopefully be able to fill with everything you both need.

Contrary to popular belief you do not frequent this space. This is a place you've left completely to her. You have no idea how her couch fairs in comparison to the one in her office, and you couldn't begin to know if there's any tea in her cupboards.

You throw the lock behind you and watch from the door way as she follows a path you sense is laced in routine. She loses the briefcase, the blazer, the boots and to your amusement her socks.

She turns to you, not fully, more of a hooded glance over her shoulder as she frees her tiny feet. There's a bit more confidence in her now. You know the feeling, it comes with knowing the ground you stand upon is your own, and knowing you'll be the one to stay if things don't go as planned.

"Can I get you anything?" You could swear the question is loaded with hidden meaning. And you find you cannot answer, because there's something extremely erotic about her now bare feet and the smooth graceful movements of her ivory arms in the lavender glow of moonlight. She moves with the grace of a willow in the wind and the stealth of a pixie floating on wings.

Your eyes zero in on her gun and that damn badge she's been hiding behind for a decade. You realize you want- no need -them gone before you can continue. Their very presents taints the air, sure they're the reason you're here, that very weapon has lain to rest the greatest horror either of you has ever known. But it's a connection to the past, a part of you both that cannot exist in this night of monumental new beginnings.

"Um, yeah" You clear your throat, and meet her eyes in the inky twilight of the room. "Could you lose the gun? Please." In an afterthought you make it a request as a pose to the demand it should be.

She nods as the fingers of one hand reflexively graze the hilt, and the other cover the face of her badge. The gesture is apologetic and protective.

Not towards you or even herself you.

They are the pieces of herself she feels make her whole. You're asking her to be someone she's very rarely ever been.

It humbles you to understand how much a part of them she is, when you've watched her put them on the line for you so many times. She's surrendered the very pieces of herself she cannot live without to protect you, and you know in this instant the man you're becoming will need to be dedicated to making gestures of equal devotion. Because quite frankly there's not a part of you left that makes you who you are without her.

"Of course, I'll be right back." She hurries toward the stairs, and stops at the bottom, a foot poised on the first step. "Make yourself at home." And with that she's up and out of sight.

You have two options here, do just as she asks- let's face it she will not be surprised if you do not heed her words- or follow through with what you know you both want.

You move, taking the carpeted stairs two at a time and summon the ability to follow through with your intended actions without letting your mind take over. You grace the landing just in time to watch her open her bedside drawer and gently lay her armor to rest. Before she closes them tightly away you see her place a small weightless object into the oblivion with them, hopefully there will be a time and place down the road to discover her need to hide it and what it may be.

You watch her steal a few calming breaths before she closes the drawer fully and turns to face you, she takes a few fluid steps before she realizes you're actually lounging in her door way as a posed to downstairs where she left you.

XxXxXxX

You fight the hollow feeling brought on by your empty waist line. It dawns on you then, it probably doesn't even skim the surface of how he must be feeling these last three days. You're both stripped of the causes that brought you together and now together you will become something entirely new.

You turn for the door, damp palms swiping the backs of your jeans. You're not completely surprised to find him lounging in your door way, come now, when has he honestly ever listened to you.

His smile is slow and genuine but his gaze is loaded down with all that's left unspoken between you, so you do the only thing you can, and throw yourself into his arms.

There'll be plenty of time to talk later, hopefully, and at this moment you're only sure of what you feel and what you want. And what you most definitely don't want is to risk the chance that you'll never make it past this point. And now that you're pressed up against him you can feel what he wants as well, you let his teeth skim your throat as you send up a thankful prayer to the ceiling.

His mouth is wicked and scorching; it starts fires on your skin and brings to life place you forgot were even reachable. You run your hands along his chest inside his blazer and push it down his arms and to the floor.

You lift your hands above your head and meet his gaze, it's an innocent enough gesture but your body is vibrating with need and you know he can see you shimmer in the barely there light. He fulfills your request and almost too quickly he's lifted you up off the floor, high enough so when you wrap yourself around him your breasts are leveled just so with his mouth. His tongue darts out, hot and lazy, along the curve of one and his name comes out like a hiss through your teeth as you tighten your grip in his hair.

And with the going trend of the evening, you can't seem to stop the dangerous words you've held at bay for years from floating to the very tip of your tongue.

"I love you." God, you've waited so long to say it, the small clear voice inside your head finally letting go of the reins in charge of your need to put your deepest feelings into words. Even awash in passion your mind had kept a tight hold of your heart, wanting to wait until you're both past the point of no return. He is after all the greatest con man you know, so in turn you've set a trap of sorts; wanting to make him feel everything, take him to place he hasn't seen in nearly a decade and then unleash everything he's made you feel over those years.

It would have been a small price to pay to ensure he'd stay.

It's unfortunate you were unable to contain yourself long enough to make it to the bed. Perhaps it's your subconscious, your mind knowing what your heart clearly cannot see.

That if he left, after a moment so intimate, it's quite possible there'd be nothing left for you. And it's best to let the emotions come before he touches you in places you could never forget.

Your heart cannot morn what it does not know, at least that's what you've been telling yourself since you met him.

His eyes meet yours and his mouth ceases roaming. He stills but does not release his hold of your waist. His thumbs brush subtly along the line of your bra directly beneath the silky cups of lace, and it's the only movement in the room aside from both your erratic breathing. He hasn't pulled back, your still flush together, the skin along the curve of your neck is still damp and slightly burned where his teeth have been settled along the curve of your collar bone. One of your hands is beneath his shirt where you know there are small pink paths your nails have left behind.

"Please don't say anything," you beg him, a smile lacing through your voice. You keep the fear locked away somewhere deep enough even he will never see it. As long as he doesn't leave, there's nothing more you need from this moment but for it to continue.

Why taint your declaration with the muddied waters of love unrequited.

His hold on you tightens, painfully, his hands conveying all he can't say, whatever it is that it may be. You'll be bruised tomorrow and if he stays they will be the only proof you have of the pain.

His brow meets your and he pushes you back until the door behind you is nearly holding both your weight. You allow your hands to roam his face, his hair, the tips of your fingers fanning his lashes as his eyes close under the onslaught of power your declaration holds.

"I know you probably know," Your voice is a whisper now, all your knight like bravery slowly slipping away with every moment he remains silent. "maybe you've always known, what is there you don't know."

"Shhh." He begs and within a heartbeat you've been lifted clear off the door. His hands are gentle and a little desperate as he drags you in, chest to chest, his face buried in your shoulder, curtained by the masses of your hair. You hold on tight and you feel the tears you've been fearing leak traitorously down your cheeks.

He loosens his hold to throw the light switch behind you, the setting is now ablaze and it sends shadows hiding in the deepest corners of the room.

He brings your faces together, noses bump in an embrace like the one you left in the CBI elevator only moments before.

"Please," His voice is a whisper, emotion drowns his vocal cords, "Please, Lisbon, say it again."

"God, Jane, I love you."

His weight shifts and he takes the few steps that lead you both to the edge of the bed. He tightens his hold as his knee comes to rest along the edge. He lowers you both and there's a moment of weightlessness so fleeting and pure.

One hand cradles your skull in a gesture you've come to expect and endear; the other slides between your breasts, palm flat, as if to cradle your heart in his hand.

You do not give him the chance to reply, you take his mouth with your own and drag his body closer still. His hips settle within yours and you groan and lift in an impatient display of need.

Your fingers are clumsy, hurried, as they fight their way through the endless buttons of his vest and shirt front. In one swift motion you tug and lift it free from the confines of his slacks.

You reach for his belt next and nimbly work it and button below free. You slip only your fingertips within the band of his briefs and feel the tremor shake him and his body tense.

His mouth abandons your throat and feasts greedily at your lace clad chest. His fingers work quickly to release the front clasp of your bra and the garment is gone and his mouth has returned within the span of a single breath.

His mouth and hands work in tandem, and together they do wicked things that bring you so close to the edge you vision dims.

"Not yet." His voice invades your lust clouded brain and you're suddenly cold. His weight has left the bed but you're limbs won't seem to work so all you offer is a meek sound of protest. If your heart wasn't pounding so hard in your ears you would hear the soft rustle of clothing hitting the floor. When he returns it's just his hands, deafly working the button and zipper of your jeans. His fingers graze the ivory planes of your stomach below your navel and slowly work their way down.

XxXxXxX

She lifts her hips in a demand to be freed from the confines of the only boundary left between you. You take hold of the heavy fabric and tug slower than you want but faster than you should. She moans and you can't be sure if it's more pleasure or demand.

She needs to be coherent and you know she's far from even remotely close to being so. There's so much you need to say, she needs to understand everything you feel now before you follow through and the words become moot.

You know what she's about, she's the same selfless woman she's always been. Giving all and demanding nothing.

Except perhaps for you to continue your way back up to the bed.

You hold yourself up, all your weight on your forearms. You push her hair back from her face, some tendrils sticky with sweat. Her hips lift in search of your own, when she finds what she's after her knees tighten and pull you down towards her, her hands taking hold of you, guiding you where she needs you to be.

"Jane, please." She's begging, your name like a prayer pouring from her lips.

You don't have the opportunity to make the decision of whether or not to make her wait, she's made it for. And she isn't waiting.

Her knees take a tighter hold of your hips and she shoves your left shoulder until your flat on your back. She hovers over you, posed to make the single last connection you have yet to make.

"Lisbon."You don't recognize your own voice. What you hear is a desperate, strangled cry, with undertones begging to be heeded.

But she doesn't, she can't, and you know the instant your bodies connect you're both eternally grateful and desperately sorry you can do nothing but follow her into the dredges of pleasure she's dragged you under.


	5. Chapter 5

Sleeves Stained Red

5

**A/N: So sorry this took so long to post. Too many days without power (AGAIN!) and too much work to catch up on. **

**A very big thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read, review, favorite or follow this story. This is the finale chapter so I hope you enjoy…**

There's not much in this moment you can stand to recognize except of course the obvious; there's the frantic heartbeat within the chest pressed along the contour of your cheek, the fingers still locked tenderly within your hair, and the warm sweat dampened body pressed along every inch of your own. And of course there are still the small electric pulses of pleasure skipping in and out of every breath you breathe.

Your bodies never lose sync even as you both make your way back down from the physical high of passion. You take the time you need to catch your breath and let your equally erratic heartbeats find their normal rhythm before you can even think to move.

It would seem the calm that so often comes before the storm has instead followed in the wake of its recession.

Because now there's a stillness here, and unlike its predecessors it's filled every fiber, every breath and every touch with the gentle ribbons of contentment. There are no threats here, no judgment beyond your own. It's a feeling so pure and light you're sure it mirrors that of nothing you've ever before felt.

You know there are things you need to say, things too important to continue to brush aside. But all that hovers along your vocal cords are fragment sentences that would make you sound like some lust strung teenager.

Wow.

Oh my.

Thank God.

You've dealt with quite a few firsts this evening and each one seems to grow greater than its counterpart. But you've yet to make the greatest declaration of the night. A first you've not experienced in nearly two decades. Never before have the words compelled so much and never before have they fought with such a vengeance to be free.

If your mind were clear you might have to touch upon the chance of her resistance to hear it.

The thought stops you cold. She's reminded you often of how you are the greatest liar she's known. And as someone who lives and breathes by the truth she's always shied away from your less commendable habits. Because truth be told, you've lied to her, you've lied to her often.

But by now she has to know every lie you've ever told her was done with the greatest of intentions.

A liar and a cheat you may be but never have your actions held the intent to cause her pain. Somehow she's come to mean more to you than anyone was every supposed to and you've spent far too many nights waging a war between your conscience and your heart.

They do say that love concurs all.

You're the first to move and it doesn't surprise you. You can only assume she's more than content to spend the rest of the night right here, her love drunk body wrapped tightly around you. You can completely understand because there's still the heat of a passion so deep and intense burning within you. But your hands lift her face and bring her eyes level with your own. Her pupils are dilated, their lids still heavy with need. Your hold is gentle and yet purposely firm as you push and pull you both until you're sitting upright in the center of the bed, her knees flanking your hips and the tangled sheets tossed haphazardly around you.

She's laid down her weapons for you, it's only fair you set aside your armor and thrown all caution to the wind. There's nothing more she needs to wonder after. You'll soon revile the greatest secret you've ever kept, and you'll do so without pressure or pretense.

The only similarity between this moment and any other you've share is that you could ask anything of her and she'd willingly follow you.

It's with that certainty in mind that you make a promise to yourself, to always put her first and never push her aside. She loves you, always has and as she's pointed out, you've probably always known. She deserves more than the deception you've been conditioned to offer and it's in this moment that you fully understand how much more you're truly capable of.

Her fingers find your face and allow the tips to settle along your hairline. Her eyelids lower as her hold on you tightens. You know she's acting on the passion still swimming through her veins. She's dragging you under for the second time tonight and you find yourself fighting to resurface before the tide of desire takes you under for good.

You finally find the strength to pull back and hold her still, the space between you only great enough to allow you to meet her eyes.

"Lisbon,"

Her eyes focus then, they take in every inch of your face and she smiles softly as she brushes your lips with the pad of a thumb. She's relaxed and content and so very, very beautiful.

"I love you. You couldn't begin to know how much." Her smile widens and her eyes fill. She bobs her head in acceptance and kisses you so soft and sweet you feel as if your chest might burst under the pressure of so much emotion.

She leaves the bed only long enough to shut the light so that all that remains is the gentle silvery glow of the moon peaking through the blinds. She's reaching for you the moment she's back beneath the sheets. Her hands are gentle and persuasive all at once but you do not relinquish control this time. There's a need in you to worship every inch of her and you cannot fulfill it if she drives you to the point of insanity before you've so much as made an attempt. You lay her back along the pillows gently and take hold of her hands and bring them together above her head.

"Don't move." You tell her, your voice a whispering plea but your eyes are hard set and firm.

She yields and you're grateful.

XxXxXxXxX

It takes you a moment to realize it's the sun that wakes you. It's been too long since the golden rays have risen before you.

He's out cold beside you, or more like beneath you. He's still deep within the realms of sleep where only dreams can reach him. You keep your movements to a minimum in hopes of allowing him to take advantage of everyone of his missed opportunities.

He looks relaxed, almost peaceful, an archangel whose wings have finally been released, who has finally fulfilled every agonizing endeavor cast before him in order to set free innocent souls.

As you slip from the room you take his shirt with you, you know it's cliché when you're surrounded by your own things but there's something subtly sexy in knowing your own smell will be left behind to mingle with his and invaded his scenes as long as he wears it.

And if you find yourself inhaling too deeply with the collar pressed along your nose, well then that's okay too.

You close the door softly behind you and head for the kitchen. There's a mirror in the hall and when you pass it you cringe slightly, you pull and shove your unruly hair until it's tied somewhat securely at your neck. He wasn't kidding when he said he liked it wild.

You put your coffee on out of habit and fill the kettle while your stomach takes a dive for your toes.

You're making tea for Patrick Jane while he sleeps in your bed. You've just spent the better part of the night not sleeping and now you're barefoot in your kitchen watching the kettle warm and debating whether or not to make him eggs.

You smile and burry your face into the collar of his shirt again, you turn for the fridge and catch sight of him lounging in the doorway. His eyes are heavy with sleep and his hair is wild from your own hands, he's thrown his slacks on but hasn't bothered with the button.

You're caught red handed and you feel the blush rise to the tips of your ears.

"I've been looking for that." His voice is husky with sleep and the gravely sound turns your joints to jelly. He's gesturing for his shirt as he approaches you the smile on his face sets your heart racing.

"It's not polite to take what isn't yours without asking." He's reached you now and pulls you close enough to begin to slowly work the buttons free. "I woke up and you were gone." His lips graze your ear as the third button is slipped open.

"I thought you might be hungry." The words come out on a sigh; you don't even recognize your own voice.

The kettle shrills behind you emphasizing your confession.

He tugs the shirt front, pulling you with him. He takes the tea pot off the heat as you pass the stove and lifts you off the floor. His mouth finds your skin as his shirt slips from your shoulders.

"I am. Come back to bed." Your response begins as a laugh and ends as a moan as his teeth find purchase along your shoulder.

He tosses you rather unceremoniously back on the bed, the pillows and sheets shift as you land. You laugh out right and it startles you both.

It's in that instant, when your eyes meet across the sun glossed room amongst the rumpled bed and scattered clothes, that you realize you never felt this free, this wanted, this loved, ever.

You feel solid and sure, you know as long as you're together you can withstand anything, and for the first time in too many years to count you can be sure of what your future holds.


End file.
